The Spring Bride (24 page)

“She's not married yet,” Zach said thinly.

There was another long silence, then Lady Beatrice said, “She's a good gel, my Jane—sweet-natured and loving. Not just a pretty face.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Men don't usually see past a pretty face and a lissome young body.”

“A pretty face is the least of her qualities,” Zach said.

“How would you know—having just arrived from Italy and all,” she pointed out sardonically.

“I've been meeting her in the park—the square opposite your house. We bonded over a dog.”

“Good gad!” She lifted the lorgnette again. Zach was getting heartily sick of it. “You're the gypsy!”

He nodded.

“Why?” She stared at him in bewilderment. “Why on earth would Adam George Zachary Aston-Black dress as a gypsy to court a respectable gel?”

“It's a long story.”

“Oh, I have plenty of time,” she said bitterly. “I have to breathe a certain amount of fresh dratted air before they let me go home. Wretched quacks! So go on, boy, explain. You clearly want—not to say need—my assistance, and I'll hear the whole story before I make up my mind. The full tale with no bark upon it, if you please.”

Zach told her everything, held nothing back, not the murder charge, not anything. There was no point in trying to keep it a
secret from her. She was apparently some kind of mind-reading witch, and besides, he needed her help. And since she'd clearly had a fondness for his grandfather . . .

When he finished, there was a long pause, then she gave a crack of laughter. “Better than a play indeed.” She sobered. “Well, young man, it's a devil of a tangle you're planning to drag my niece into. Why should I assist with that, eh?”

“I'm not planning to drag her into anything,” Zach said. “I just want to talk to her, make her understand.”

“To understand what?”

Zach just looked at her. What he had to say to Jane was private. For Jane's ears only.

She laughed and patted his cheek. “Such a delicious glower. Your grandfather was just the same.”

“The problem is time,” Zach said. “It might take weeks to sort out the mess I'm in, and by then . . .”

The old lady nodded. “By then the gel could be married.”

“Exactly. His having the banns called has forced my hand. I wouldn't otherwise involve her until I could come to her, free and clear.”

She nodded slowly, considering what he'd said. “The gel's not interested in marrying for love, you know. Wants security above all. Had a difficult time of it as a child. Quite happy to make a convenient marriage.” She gave him a shrewd look. “You and Cambury both have a title, a fortune and property—or you will have when, as you say, the mess is sorted out. But Cambury is, I fancy, a great deal wealthier than you will ever be.”

Zach said nothing. He knew that.

Lady Beatrice continued, “My Jane's not a gel who likes to upset the apple cart—she likes everyone to be happy. If she were to brave the scandal that jilting Cambury would cause—and believe me, it would be the scandal of the decade—she'd need a dashed good reason. So, young Aston-Black, what can you offer her that she hasn't already got?”

Zach looked her in the eye. “Me.”

There was a brief pause, then Lady Beatrice went into a peal of laughter. “A chip off your grandfather's block indeed. Not a shred of modesty in that man either.” She wiped her eyes. “Well, nobody has ever accused me of being a spoilsport, so as long as you're not playing fast and loose with the affections of my
Jane—and you're not, are you?” She poked him in the chest—quite hard—and gave him a beady look.

“No, my lady, I promise you I'm not.” And he meant every word.

She gave him a long look that stripped him bare in quite a different way this time. He wasn't sure what she saw, but whatever it was seemed to satisfy her. “I believe you, dear boy.” She glanced at Jane's rigid back, still pointedly turned, and chuckled. “Come to my literary society tomorrow. Two o'clock sharp. And it would be delightful if you could converse in Italian with my nieces—they will simply adore it.”

She fished in her reticule, pulled out a card and a pencil and scribbled something on it. “Give this to Featherby, my butler; he'll admit you. And don't fret, I won't give you away. I quite see the need for discretion. You come too, young Radcliffe. We need more young men.”

“Delighted, my lady,” Gil said glumly.

Zach took the card. A literary society was a more public meeting than he'd planned on, but it was a start. He had to get her alone, had to make her believe him. And to give him time to show her . . .

He glanced across at Jane, bowed to the old lady and smiled. “Thank you, my lady, you won't regret this, I promise you.”

The old lady laid a gnarled hand over her heart. “Oh, that wicked, wicked smile—it does take me back.” She gave him a wicked smile of her own. “The literary society has been getting devilish dull lately. The arrival of a handsome, Italian-speaking gentleman should liven things up nicely.”

As they walked away, Gil commented dryly, “Quite an education, watching you handle a harmless little old lady.”

“Smugness does not become you, Gilbert. Besides—harmless? She's a bloody witch! You should recruit her.”

“How do you know I haven't already?”

Zach laughed.

You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

“M
'mother dragged me to Lady Beatrice's literary society once before,” Gil told Zach as they approached the big white house in Berkeley Square. “Not the usual kind of literary society. It's packed full of old ladies who can't read small print anymore. The girls read the books aloud, then everyone has tea, then they read a bit more, then they all go home. Sometimes they even read the same book twice!” He shook his head in mild disgust.

“Sounds painless enough.”

“The trouble is, every old lady has at least one eligible young female relation that she's trying to palm off on some hapless fellow,” Gil said gloomily. “Why else d'you think m'mother dragged me there in the first place? Not for my entertainment, you can be sure of that.”

They rang the bell and Lady Beatrice's butler opened the door. His eyes narrowed in recognition.

Before he could say anything, Zach handed him Lady Beatrice's card. “Messrs. Black and Radcliffe for the literary society.” The butler glanced at the card, and stood back to let them enter, managing to convey in some mysterious butlerish fashion that while he disapproved of her ladyship's imprudence in inviting
such a dubious fellow as Zach, he would naturally honor the card. But he would be watching and Zach had better behave himself.

All conveyed without a word. Marvelous, Zach thought as he stepped inside and found a large liveried footman waiting to collect coats, hats, gloves and umbrellas. “Afternoon, William.”

“You!” Having no mysterious butlerish powers, William started forward, clearly ready to throw Zach into the street, but the butler cleared his throat in a discreet and meaningful manner, and with visible difficulty, William restrained himself.

Again, Zach admired the butler's powers. He handed William his hat. “Apologies for my earlier deception, William. Not really a gypsy. Was on government business.” He tapped the side of his nose.

Gil shrugged off his coat and handed it to the butler. “Numbers dropped since the start of the season, have they, Featherby?” he said. “Can usually hear the din from here.”

“On the contrary, sir,” Featherby murmured. “The quiet is because you have arrived a little late. The reading has already begun.”

As he passed the still glowering William, Zach slipped a gold guinea into the big man's hand. From the look on the footman's face, it reconciled him slightly to having Zach in the house. Just barely.

Zach followed Gil, who seemed to know his way. They entered a large drawing room, where at least fifty people were seated in semicircular rows, all facing the front.

It wasn't quite full of old ladies, Zach saw. There were at least a dozen younger men, all exquisitely dressed and seated in the front semicircle of chairs.

On a small podium sat three young women. Jane, in the center, was reading aloud. The young men leaned forward, gazing at her raptly.

Puppies, Zach thought. He wanted to bang their heads together and boot them out the door.

Lady Beatrice caught his eye and nodded a regal greeting. Zach nodded back. Most of the chairs were taken, and he and Gil waited just inside the door, so as not to disturb the reading.

Zach stood in the doorway listening, drinking in the sight of Jane, sitting with her back straight, reading aloud, as earnest as a schoolgirl.

“He came to ask me whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too young—in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension, perhaps of her being considered (especially since your making so much of her) as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said . . .”

She looked enchanting. Her voice was clear, her reading ever so slightly . . . wooden.

He found it utterly endearing.

At the turning of a page, she glanced up and saw him. Her jaw dropped, she lost her place, then fumbled and dropped the book. She shot a glance at a man seated to her left and flushed. Zach could only see the back of his head. Sandy hair and a balding pate.

There was an immediate scrimmage as the young dandies at the front leapt into action, competing gallantly to retrieve the dropped book and return it to her.

Zach was more interested in the fellow who'd caused that anxious look. Taking advantage of the disturbance, he moved fully inside, choosing a position at the back of the room where, standing, he had a clear view of Jane. Gil followed.

Since that first fraught look, Jane hadn't even glanced at Zach, but the way she avoided looking in his direction told him she knew exactly where he was. Beside her, the sister with whom she'd been walking in the park watched him with an expression that indicated if she found him hanging from a cliff by his fingers, she'd gladly stamp on them.

She was loyal to her sister. Zach liked that. He smiled and gave her a friendly nod.

Order restored, Jane resumed her reading, her color considerably heightened.

The sandy-haired fellow turned his head and gave Zach a long, hard look.

“That's Cambury,” Gil murmured.

Zach had thought as much. Across the crowded room the two men eyed each other.
What can you offer her that she hasn't already got?
The old lady's question echoed in his head and he thought of that moment, that split-second instant, when she'd gone from resisting him to kissing him back.

Did she kiss Cambury like that? His fists clenched at the thought of her golden slenderness in Cambury's pudgy hands. He shoved them in his pocket.

Jane paused a moment, then her voice rose as she read with slight emphasis:

“It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.”

Feminine titters rippled through the audience.

Zach's lips twitched as he wondered which one of them she was aiming that at. Him, no doubt. Or perhaps all the men in the audience.

She continued: “
Nonsense! A man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin! Madness if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken . . .
”
and Zach's attention wandered.

He had no interest in this story. He was examining his surrounds, wondering how, in this crowd, he would be able to speak to her in private. The old lady had tricked him. It looked well-nigh impossible.

Jane finished the page and passed the book to the dark-haired young woman sitting on her right, who continued reading. Unlike Jane, she had a real flair for the dramatic.

“Freddy Monkton-Coombes's wife—her sister Damaris,” Gil murmured in Zach's ear.

“I thought there were four sisters. The other one not here?”

“Daisy.” Gil jerked his chin to indicate her. “The little one sitting in the far corner, sewing. She never reads.”

“Why not?”

Gil shrugged.

“For sisters, they don't look much alike, do they?” Zach commented.

“Shush!” A lady turned around with an indignant look. “Damaris is reading!” They subsided into abashed silence. Jane still hadn't looked at him, not since that first shocked glance as she'd realized he was here.

It was, he hoped, a good sign. If she was indifferent to him, she'd look. Surely.

In the break between chapters, while everyone was eating cake and drinking tea, Lady Beatrice caught his eye and waved him imperiously closer. The wrinkled old face was bland, but the eyes brimmed with mischief.

She beckoned her nieces over and, when they'd gathered around her, said, “Gels, I would like you to meet Mr. Black, a gentleman newly arrived from Italy.”

Zach bowed gracefully as she made the introductions. She ended, “Zachary is the grandson of an old friend of mine. And do you know what else? He knew your father, gels, the dear departed
Marchese
di Chancelotto
.” She beamed gently at Zach with a cat-who-ate-the-cream expression, and he recalled that she'd predicted his arrival would liven things up. “And he speaks fluent Italian—what do you think of that, eh, gels?”

Not a lot, judging by the way her nieces stiffened and stepped closer to Jane. Four pairs of eyes fixed him with a hard expression, daring him to do his worst.

He smiled at the mischievous old bat through gritted teeth. So much for her assurance of discretion. “You misunderstood me, my lady,” he said smoothly. “What I said was that since I had recently arrived from Italy, your nieces and I might perhaps have acquaintances in common.” He glanced at their unresponsive faces and shrugged. “But perhaps not.”

He turned to Jane. “Delighted to meet you again,
signorina
,” he said in excellent Italian, and went on to apologize—still in Italian—for the misunderstanding, assuring her and her sisters that he'd never met the
marchese
.

Hoping he had reassured them, he was surprised to see four blank—and slightly panicked—expressions on the faces of three of the four nieces. The small one just glared at him with uncomplicated fury.

Jane looked quite frozen. Her sister Abby said hurriedly, “We do not speak Italian,
Signor
Black.”

“Only Venetian,” Jane added.

Zach inclined his head gracefully. Of course, Venetians were very proud of their distinct culture and history. He said in the Venetian dialect, “My Venetian is a little rusty, but if you would prefer me to use that . . .” And when he received another equally blank and slightly panicked look, he realized the old lady had tricked him. The girls had no idea what he'd said.

“Ah, you don't wish to speak Venetian?” he said quickly in English.

“Not in public,” Jane told him. “We were brought up to believe it's impolite to speak a language others in the room do not speak.”

“Oh, but Miss Chance,” a lady gushed, “I would love to hear a Venetian conversation.”

“Me too,” said another. “I learned Italian in the schoolroom, of course, but I have never had the pleasure of conversing with a native speaker.” She batted her lashes at Zach. “Especially such a dashing one.”

Jane's sister Abby stepped forward. “Sorry, but Lady Beatrice has forbidden us to speak Venetian”—she turned to the old lady and said with an edge of steel—“haven't you, Aunt Beatrice, dear?”

The old lady gave Zach the sweetest smile and said, “Indeed I have. I should have warned you, Mr. Black, Italian is bad enough, but the mere
sound
of the Venetian dialect gives me the most frightful palpitations. It was all the fault of the doge. Or was he a
marchese
? I forget—the most divine-looking man, with such eyes—like drowning in chocolate, my dears—and the longest, thickest lashes. And his figure—I vow, his valet must have had to pour him into his breeches. As for peeling him out of them—well . . .” And she sighed with gusty reminiscence.

At that point the butler rang a little bell and there was a general shuffle to resume seats. Jane gave Zach a look that gave him to understand that if she never saw him again, that would be perfect.

Damn and blast. He'd come here to mend the situation between him and Jane, and now—with his Italian/Venetian debacle—it was worse than ever. He glanced at the old lady, cursed her under his breath. It amazed him that she'd lived so long, that nobody had yet strangled her.

She grinned back at him like the veriest urchin brat, filled with such unrepentant glee, he was forced almost to laugh.

Zach inclined his head to her, acknowledging her victory. The devious old hellcat. She'd led him right down the garden path, paying him back, no doubt, for his initial deception of Jane. It had been an impressive performance.

He glanced at Gil to see if he'd witnessed the debacle, and
saw his friend once again battling with silent convulsions. Zach made his way to the back of the room. All was not lost, he told himself. He was still here in the house where Jane lived. There must be a way he could see her, explain. Apologize.

He stepped back to let a lady pass when a sharp little elbow jammed into his ribs, hard. “Oof!”

He turned, rubbing his ribs. The culprit was a small, elegantly dressed young woman, the fourth sister, Daisy. “Sorry,” she said. She didn't look the least bit sorry. That elbow had been deliberately aimed. Another one who wanted to punish him for speaking Italian, no doubt. She jerked her head toward the door. “Follow me, gypsy.”

Gypsy?
Intrigued, he followed. She led him along the hallway and Zach was surprised to see she had a distinct limp. He was also surprised by her accent: pure broad Cockney, nothing like Jane's.

“The old lady told me to say you're to wait in the parlor along 'ere.” She opened a door and showed him into a small, elegant parlor. “When the reading's done, she'll send Jane in to talk to you.”